Heart in Exile
by Jascindar
Summary: It should have been a perfect murder: kill the spoiled sister of a powerful gang leader and reap the monetary rewards. Kieran Grey had killed lots of little girls...but this one, this one was different.
1. Drowning by Numbers

Author: Jas

E-mail: abrilliantanarchist@hotmail.com

Title:  Heart in Exile

Rating: 18 +  (for sex, drug use, swearing, violence)

Spoilers: None.

Disclaimers: The general concept of the NW, unfortunately, does not belong to me but instead to L.J. Smith.  I'm just borrowing it for the purposes of this story.  No profit is being made.  The characters within, however, are of my own twisted creation.  Please don't steal…  Not that you would… J

Summary: It should have been a perfect murder: kill the spoiled sister of a powerful gang leader and reap the monetary rewards.  Kieran Grey had killed lots of little girls...but this one, this one was different.  Samaire Morgan used to be a shape-shifter.  But an act of revenge against her brother left her changed forever, and not in a rosy, Oprah-esque.  It should have been simple; Samaire should have been dead...  But they hadn't counted on Kieran falling in love.  And Samaire being so damn hard to kill.  

Commentary:  Vastly differing from my other feel-good fics, I got the idea for this one after watching _Pulp Fiction_, if that gives you **any** indication.  Feedback is highly appreciated and flames are laughed at and deleted summarily.

Chapter One: Drowning by Numbers

_~ Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions,  
Oh, let's go back to the start. ~___

            Her death had been brilliant.

            Always, upon rememberance, she thought of it in terms of bold colors: the quick flashing spurts of red, the cold, sweet black of pain, the slippery green of ecstasy.  Her heart would pound in the memory, and her breath would fall short, with her chest poised in perfect mid-motion.

All those violent, beautiful colors.  They haunted her dreams, day and night.

            Her brother would never approve.  She felt guilty for even feeling this, for even assigning emotions and thought to her death.  She would wake up at night in a sweaty, tangled mess and feel like a child with her hand in the cookie jar.  Would she get caught?  Had he heard her screams?

            Nicholas said she wasn't supposed to think on it.  Never again.  It was behind them now.

            Except it wasn't.  She thought about it all the time.  Dying, screaming, bleeding. She couldn't help herself.  She loved her death, the way her blood didn't run through her veins and her heart was cold and stone quiet in her chest.

            Her death consumed her, like a moth too close to the flame.

            She couldn't help herself.

*****************

*****************

            "You look tired."

            "I'm fine."  

            Samaire Morgan poured creamer into her coffee.  Not that it would help.  She could no longer distinguish the bitter tang of caffeine from water or Kool-Aid or, sweet Jesus, a hobo's piss.

            "You don't look fine."

            "Well, I am."

            "Well, you don't lo-"

            "Well, I *bleeding* am FINE, all right?  Is this some sort of fucking interrogation?  Am I on trial, Nicholas?  What're you going to do?  Burn me at the stake?"

            She snapped.  She hadn't meant to, not when it was so trivial a matter.  Her control, a tenuous thing at the very best of times, tended to be an issue.

            Nicholas didn't miss a beat, though, hardly batting an eyelash at his sister's explosive outburst.  "You're over tired, Mari.  What did I tell you about the nightmares?"  

A sigh, short and punctuated with annoyance at her as if she had control over such things.  "They're to stop, do you hear?"

            She stared down at her over-buttered toast and her cheeks flamed a bright, hot red.  "I guess my sub-conscious didn't get the memo.  Don't worry, I'll re-fax at the first oppurtunity."

            Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his fingers tighten around the edge of The Wall Street Journal.  And when he looked at her, that _I'm warning you for the last fucking time_ look stole over his face.

            "Don't take the tone, Samaire."  His voice was deceptively soft.  "They're to _stop_.  Do you hear?"

            _A flash.__  Him staring down at her- a young, sweetly pretty her with pink ribbons in her pig tails.  She was looking up at him in absolute, perfect devotion, a small smile curling on her rosebud mouth; he had his hand on the top of her head._

            "I'll try."  Her nails dug into her palm under the table, hard enough to draw blood.  "I will try harder, Nicholas."

"Right."  The word dug itself into Samaire's head. _Right_.  So perfectly dismissive.  So fucking insensitve.  What had happened to the days when he used to take care of her, used to bandage her cuts and dry her tears?

_Your parents died.  And then you died, sweetness.  Now everything's different._

"I…am sorry."  She absently scratched her bandaged arms and wished, just fucking wished, for a sharp splinter of wood…  Just one cut, just one last time…

Nicholas didn't notice.  "Well, let's not fight, Samaire, not right now, okay?"  His fingers went marginally lax again and his face adopted a semblance of concern, perfect for all occasions when she had, in his estimation, utterly fucked up.

"In fact, why don't skip your school today?  You must be quite exhausted, darling. Gisele can take you to the museum.  You can bring your sketchbook, have a nice drawing session, perhaps.  Then, maybe later, she can take you to see a movie if you like.  I don't know what's out now, but I'm sure you two will come up with something.  Some romantic comedy, perhaps, give your mind a rest."

            It was the very last thing Samaire needed: her brother's current, over-endowed concubine, a flaming idiot by the way, escorting her around town like she was some lunatic that had to be watched twenty-four hours a day lest she break out into a homicidal and/or suicidal rage.

            "I'm fine.  I'd like to go to school, if that's all right."

            And, oh, how she hated begging him like a_ dog_ to do what she wanted.

            "You sure?"

            He smiled, in what Samaire could see he considered victory.

            "I'm fine."

            Mercifully, he left it at that.  She watched the worry vanish, as if it never had been, and his face return to its normal state of cautious wariness, mixed now with the faint hint of irratitation_.  Reading the finace papers again_, she thought.  _Mad that your stocks aren't doing as well as you hoped?  Mad that I'm crazy and have put a wrinkle in your sunshine life?_

            She grabbed her backpack and left the toast untouched upon the pretty little china plate and the tea still piping hot in its delicate cup.  She stared across at Nicholas, always so handsome and strong and straight, even though she suspected that most of the time he was a right bastard deserving more of jail time than of their parents' vast assets and sprawling mansion.

            "Are you leaving for Hong Kong today?"

            "I'd like to leave at eight-thirty.  The mechanics are working on the plane right now and, the gods willing, it'll ready on or about then."  He ran a hand through thick, short, black curls and glanced idly at the watch on his left wrist.  "Gisele will be staying on, if you require a companion or any attention."

            He put down the paper and turned his head towards her, staring at her suddenly.  She didn't mind, but there was a candidness about his gaze that made her curiously uncomfortable, as if he wanted to pull her face, as it was right now, down into himself and burn its impression in his heart, there for later rememberance.

            "So you're leaving, then?"  His green eyes, the same large, doe-eyed shape and color as her own, lingered over her scarred neck.

            "Yes."

            Her fingers clenched the strap of her Jansport and her black Mary Janes were rooted to the carpet, unable to move.

            "Well, little sister.  Have a good day."

            So many unspoken words.  She could tell he was saying two very different things, but she hadn't the slightest clue as to what either was.  Samaire looked on at him, a little desperately, and tried for a smile.  It didn't, she knew, fit quite right on her face- a grimace instead of a grin.

            "Yes.  And you."

            "I'll see you next week."

            Samaire nodded and backed out of the dining room, her shoes finally regaining the power to walk.  Nicholas's last words hung like little angels over her head; there was a strange and disquieting finality in his farewell.

            It was like goodbye.  A final, last goodbye in which he didn't expect to see her again at all, let alone next week.

            _She was lying in the grass, crying.  Young, god's yes, she must've been no more than five and her wrists were bleeding.  A gash, an accidental cut.  Her hiccuping screams were echoing for miles and when she called, she called for Nicholas, not her parents or her nanny.  Nicholas would take care of her._

            She looked back.  He was still staring at her; he had neither moved hair nor hide since she walked away.  His eyes were fixed exlcusively upon her, as if devouring the last remanants of her presence.

            _Well, little sister._

            "Goodbye."

            Her voice seemed to echo between them, for a long and desert-filled eternity.

            "Goodbye, Samaire."

            Her mouth twitched, just slightly, and...  She knew.  And that knowing, while his eyes were still locked with hers…  They told her stories and sung songs she couldn't have heard before: the whole, horrible sum of Nicholas Morgan's intentions.

            _They were in the woods at night and he was holding her hand.  There were people after them, bad people, and her heart was beating like a lonely little war drum.  But Nicholas, he kept telling her:' It's all right.  You're safe with me; here let me carry you, love.  Yes, I'm here.  You're safe.'  She believed him._

            One, two heartbeats and she walked into the hall.  Her numb fingers somehow managed to find her Burberry raincoat and favorite polka-dot umbrella from the coat rack.  And, then, with the secret movements of someone used to being evasive, Samaire moved towards a shelf near the door.  Her fingers searched, upending a row of books into a small, hidden panel in the wall that opened to reveal…a nickel-plated gun.  Fully loaded, ready for use.

            Outside, in the cold grayness of London, it was raining.

            And inside, in the warmth and coziness of the Morgan home, her brother was planning her murder.         

_~ Questions of science, science and progress,  
Do not speak as loud as my heart,  
And tell me you love me, come back and haunt me,  
Oh and I rush to the start,  
Running in circles, chasing tails,  
Coming back as we are.___

_Nobody said it was easy,  
Oh, it's such a shame for us to part. ~___

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	2. The Would Be Assassin

Chapter Two:  The Would-Be Assassin

_~ Blame it upon a rush of blood to the head.~_

There were only two things in the world that Kieran Grey truly and deeply detested: rain and Monday mornings.  

            It would be fitting then, that he was standing knee-deep in a _fucking _puddle of muddy water, rain pouring down his coat on a _very early _Monday morning, his eyes trained on the iron wrought gates of a white, pillored, very British estate.

He had a Sig Saur in his left hand, cleverly concealed from passersby by his thick coat and the way his body was leaning against the brick pillors, and a check for fifty thousand pounds in his pocket from one Mr. Nicholas Lovell Morgan, pulled from a personal Swiss bank account.

_I know you're the best, Kieran, but for Christ's sake make it quick.  She **is** my sister, you see._

            He had found the look of absolute sincerity on the man's face somewhat troubling.  The amount of the check, equal to almost 100,000 U.S. dollars, was even more troubling.  The sister must have done something _very, very bad_ indeed to have her own brother gunning for her with that amount of money and anxiousness to have her eradicated from the face of the earth.

            So, under the working theory that little sis must be just short of being the Anti-Christ, Kieran had no problem with the fact that he had two bullets ready for her skull and one for her chest.  

            Well, he had no problem with it anyway. To be honest, even if little sis turned out to be the Virgin Mary reincarnated, she still couldn't escape the loud, distinctive thrush call of his rent being due next week.  And since he liked to live well above his means, Mr. Nicholas Lovell Morgan's check would go a long way toward helping pay a lot of different things.  Drinking, whoring, gambling: the essentials, to put it bluntly.

            Sorry, little sis.

            He just wished she'd put in an appearance, say, before the second coming.  Had Kieran been alive and breathing, he probably would have caught pnemonia ten times over.  Being dead then, had its benefits  but couldn't stop the slimy, slick feeling of water gathering under his coat collar or save his Italian leather shoes from becoming an utterly ruined disaster.

            Well, job hazards, he supposed, and ran a hand through his hair, spiky from the rain, and hunkered down to face little sis.  Nicholas said she usually left the house between seven-thirty and eight o'clock.

            A glance at his waterproof watch put the time at seven forty-five.

            It wouldn't be long now.

************

************

            She stepped out in the rain.  

She didn't mind the rain and couldn't feel it anyway, but she knew it would utterly fuck up her hair and carefully arranged outfit; better, then, just to pretend she gave a good damn and wear the raincoat rather than face the stares of classmates.

            Last year, she'd faced them more than she cared to remember.  The long, quiet looks from total strangers and the whispers of her name floating down the hall, invariably paired with the words 'poor' or 'crazy', was more than she could bear.  A return to "normalcy" had shut them up for a while and Samaire didn't need to give them an excuse to start up the rumor mill again, with their patient eyes roaming her body, looking for any excuse to cut her down to her knees.

            "You have a good day, Miss Samaire."  The immaculatly dressed, but rain soaked, old guard at the door smiled at her and tipped his hat.  He wasn't standing under the porch, but in the rain and she could only imagine how the man must be wishing to hell down low for a straight razor right now.

            "You understand, Miss Samaire, the cars are being used in preperation for Mr. Nicholas's trip to the airport.  You'll have to walk, today."

            He spoke as if it was the world's greatest tragedy, her having to walk two blocks down on a rainy day.  His eyes were soft, even, and they followed the lines of her face.

            "I'm terribly sorry, Miss."

            "It'll be fine, I'm sure."  She nodded once, opened her umbrella, and started walking down the long, winding lane that led out to the city.  For a minute there, she thought the guard was going to be the one to do it.  She had anticipated his sorries and then, when she least expected it, for him to pull out a gun and smile that sad smile and say, _I'm terribly sorry, Miss._

            She wondered who and where.  She wondered if she would let them go through with it or not- to be or not to be, that was the question of Samaire's last hour.

            "Good morning to you, Missus Samaire."  Another non-descript guard, this one stationed by the gate.  Her presence appeared to have roused him from some kind of comrade-like conversation; when she got closer she could see the guard's talking companion was actually standing outside on the street, dressed in appropriate villian black and leaning against the outside pillor in way that suggested absolute indifference.

            His face was unconventional.  His eyes were dark blue, so blue she could even see them from where she was standing, and deep-set, creating shadows underneath the bold sky colour.  His nose was almost perfect, but just a tad too long for his face, and she imagined, if so inclined, she cut diamonds on the harsh lines of his cheekbones.  He was pale, but not unappealingly so, and the lean, angular shape of his face hinted at an equally lean and angular body hiding beneath his bulky, black coat.  His hair was blonde, dark blonde, and twisted into a disheveled spikes on top of his head by the rain.

He looked older than her, but not by much, late twenties at the most.  And… _Vampire_, she thought.  _Lamia__._  And wondered, ever so briefly, what he was doing at Nicholas's estate, the house of a known shapeshifter and enemy to all things dead.

            "Open the gate, please?"  To the guard and then,  "Thank you."

            The heavy, iron gates swung inward, lurching and creaking every rusting inch of the way to reveal the silent streets of the posh section of London.  She stepped out, then turned towards the man near the gate who had been speaking with the guard: he was watching her like a particularly interesting insect, writhing on the cloth just before he pinned her down.

            _He's the one._

            She stared at him while the rain poured down her face and raised her hand to trail across her unbeating heart.  The rain felt like blood, like all the blood she'd ever shed returned back to her and running down her face.

            "You gonna do it, then?" she asked, and tilted her head to the side as if considering something of vital import.  "Surely, you won't let me catch cold first.  That, my friend, would be insult to injury." 

            Her eyes stayed on him and she moved towards him suddenly, not stopping until her body was pressed against his and her mouth just a breath away from his ear.

            "And, as you're a shot or two away from killing me, don't you think that's injury enough?"

            No answer and she couldn't read the fleeting, flitting shadows in those dazzling eyes.  Didn't even want to try.  Slowly and smoothly, she pulled away from him, and looked back over at the guard, who was staring at them open-mouthed and wide-eyed like a nervous little boy about to piss his pants.  Obviously, he'd been told to expect _something_ and in some way they had all deviated from the set upon plan.

            "Lighten up, sunshine," Samaire said to him, with a forced grin.  "It'll happen soon enough."

            She turned her back on them both and started walking down the street.

************

************

            He couldn't believe he hadn't killed her.  Kieran's fingers tightened on the gun as he watched her walk away.  The Anti-Christ, indeed.  Fucking unbelievable.

            "I'm not sure, Mic, but I think that was your cue to…you know," the guard beside him gave a sheepish, rubbery grin.  "_Kill 'er._"  He whispered the last and sent a surrepitious glance back at the main house.  "I mean, yeah?"

            "Yeah."  The girl was out of sight now, sauntering to school he was sure, without a care in the free world and he was still standing in the rain like her stood-up prom date, waiting for a deliverance that had long past him by.

            Infuriating, bleeding, fucking _woman_.

            He'd kill her if it took the rest of his miserable, rain soaked, immortal life.

            "Tell Nicholas…"  Here, Kieran hesitated.  If the wrong message was conveyed, he knew Nicholas would not hesitate to sever his head from his body and stick it on one of the spikes on the gate.  Or, try at least.  "To start planning his sister's funeral.  It'll be complete by nightfall."

            He stared into the fog of rain that was a London Monday morning in April and stood up straight, already moving after little sis with the gun hidden under the folds of his non-descript coat.

            "Give him my word."

            He didn't look back.

_~ I don't have a soul to save. ~_

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End file.
